


Blood Bubble

by Hgrade



Series: Shadowzone Reverbs [11]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Daterape, Energon is totally not blood guys, Forced Drug Use, M/M, Pain, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:25:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hgrade/pseuds/Hgrade
Summary: It was like cutting teeth.





	Blood Bubble

**Author's Note:**

> Another depressing thing.
> 
> Minor revisions.

Swindle should be more careful, especially on quiet nights. Not that it was night, there was no sun to define that. Neither of the ship's other occupants had any idea of what night would be, having never left the cozy recesses of Swindle's transport ship. Thrust takes up guard duty, manning the command center and observing their various devices. 

Dirge makes his way down to his quarters, pauses. Then he decides to go further down the hall. The ship is pretty big, but has a scarcity of amenities. A cargo freighter turned half-shop half-warehouse, most of its shape is dedicated to storage. Nine of the sixteen rooms are full of the merch. The mech takes a left at the end of the hall and observes the last two rooms. All of the rooms are Swindle's, he isn't sure which the smaller bot is in. 

The seeker's hardly thinking as he presses his servo against the lock. Swindle lets the guard in with a lazy noise, the room reveals itself as a mess of datapads and unsorted items. Every surface has something on it, whether it's a stray strip of foil or a chunk of some 'rare' metal. 

"Yes?" comes from the sleepy, sleazy mech.

Swindle's half buried in a pile of data pads and there's several opened oil barrels beside him. The seeker has seen him like this many times, the crawl in his processor knows how vulnerable the mech could get while slugging back the drink. "Are you busy?" his optics are peeling over the smaller mech's chest and to the belt of weapons around his waist, stray dots of dried oil on legs.

The kaki clad bot can't detect the intense gaze, barely handling the process of sitting up from his impromptu berth- a short repair bench. He'd been tinkering with something he can't recall, and his optics shutter sluggishly. Slowly his processes are waking up, he tilts his head and looks over everything. The recharge process begins to wear off and he feels the alertness returning. "Let me think here." and he does think. About a cycle passes and he opens his optics again. Dirge, the blue and yellow mech no longer in view. He blinks, and turns slowly.

There's pressure on his neck and head, but it isn't violent. Swindle makes a garbled noise that should of been a question in his audial, but there's fingers pulling his intake open. They taste unfamiliar, even though he'd made them. The mech reaches up with his hooked claw-like digits and scrapes at the hand, slipping off the seat due to his lack of balance. Swindle doesn't think about using his anti-personal weapons, there's a knee on his pelvis. He can't make sense of the mech pushing something against his faceplate and forcing him to drink, it's too much. His optics burn from the stray oil going down the wrong tube, he coughs violently.

Dirge lets up, rolls Swindle onto his side and lets the smaller bot inhale and exhale blearily. "Better?" Swindle's optics are unfocused, he grumbles softly. 

The clone has never touched someone like this, not even himself. It's with a cold, clinical touch that he proceeds over face and over body. Plate after plate, dip by dip and ridge by ridge. Swindle tries to make a joke about medics but it sounds like a half dead mechanimal instead. Only a little pressure, the seeker doesn't have to fight against the covers. Dirge's goldenrod finish doesn't clash against the colors on swindle's groin. Swindle opens his privacy plating and the larger bot observes curiously. The flesh bared has the same color as Swindle's faceplate. The array's housing, jet black. It occurs to Dirge that he can't recall what his own interface array looks like.

He wants to see more. The mech's fingers press shyly against the plush slit of Swindle's coverage. Dirge feels something's wrong but he's never heard of whisky dick or the Cybertronian equivalent. It wasn't supposed to hurt, but something makes the smaller mech cringe. A curious look appears on the seeker's face, he pushes his fingers into Swindle again. Saliva bubbles in the corner of the merchant's mouth and when Dirge pulls out his somewhat gold claws they're tinted with glowing purple-pink blood. 

Frowning, the seeker wipes it off on a nearby cloth- probably for polishing glass. He leans forward and presses his faceplate against Swindle's. The seeker only touches the corner of the modified mech's mouth. Swindle tastes like old oil and polish. None of it feels right, not until he's pulling the smaller mech into his lap. Swindle goes along with it, limp as an overcooked noodle. Dirge's nails scrape here and there against the hummer's finish. Blaster edge dully clunking with each mis-move, he's so tidy that it doesn't leave rings from the discharge.

The mech hadn't realized what the process was for until the barest acknowledgement makes his array open up. His cord comes out gray rather than the yellow he'd been expecting. Sure, Dirge could of masturbated. What was the point of such an empty act, he'd decided that he might as well interface with someone. Anyone, the other clone was more pathetic and stupid. He drags Swindle's hips closer to his crotch, then grabs his cord and guides it into the slick sleeve. 

There's unsteady pressure, but the grab of it's flickering between panicked squeezing and almost-nothing-there. He starts to roll into the smaller mech, earning a faint groan with every thrust. It feels a little wrong to Drige, wasn't the other partner supposed to like it at least a little. It smells almost appealing, the slight edge of energon in the air. The mech can hardly think when the wet, slick heat crawls further down his cord. Swindle's helm scrapes against the floor noisily, arms dragging and making unpleasant noises that Dirge barely registers.

Throbbing, pain. His groin feels wet and tingly, not in a good way. Nodes are scraped by too-dry metal mesh Delirium filled with nothing but a blur of nothing quite solid. Claws leaving dents in his perfect finish. Swindle can't make a lick of sense out of the world around him. The heavy blasts of air sound like someone greedily sucking down air like they wanted to use up all the O2, field drenched in curled waves like broken piano wire.

The sharp noises that come from metal shaving metal continues as the ship's orbit wanes.


End file.
